Chapter 25: The Call Knows Where You Live
The Ministry of Magic
Wizengamot Annual Address
October 16, 2003
12:26 p.m.
The voice was oddly incorporeal; like a ghost, in a way - like a trick the Hogwarts poltergeist might play, for those who still remembered Peeves' tendency for dramatics - only far worse, because it was audible from every corner of the room. Suddenly, the room was filled with the motion of heads turning; with the sound of voices gasping, and silverware clanging against tables as glasses fell to shards on spare beams of the floor.
"Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards of the Ministry; esteemed colleagues, dear friends, and honored leaders," the voice had said, something strange and toneless and neither male nor female. "Welcome to your rude awakening."
All at once, the room went pitch black. The collective inhalation of breath was powerful, and palpable, and within every corner of the banquet hall hands shot out at random for others' out of a strange, reflexive need to be certain there was someone beside them; to find comfort in the presence of someone equally trapped.
"I'm aware you're pressed for time," the voice continued, "so I'll cut to the chase. This, ladies and gentleman, is a demonstration; a showcase, if you will."
"This," the voice announced boldly, "is how you might have died today."
A light appeared from nowhere, from nothing; it swiveled, landing somewhere in the crowd.
"Warlock Percy Weasley," the voice said. "Welcome to the Wizengamot. You will notice that above your head, there are three knives suspended from the ceiling."
There was a loud thud, a clang, and a series of shrill screams.
"Now, of course, there is a knife in your butter dish, a knife in your water glass, and a third knife just beside your right hand. Had I wished it, all three knives would have fallen into your head, or perhaps the side of your neck. But I said this was merely an exhibition, didn't I?"
There was a scrape of a chair as Head Auror Harry Potter rose to his feet, instantly sending his Aurors to the perimeter of the room without a word.
"Moving on. Warlock Ifan Hawkworth," the voice continued, the light shifting to fall upon someone further down the same table. "I would similarly advise you not to move."
Warlock Hawkworth launched to his feet, whipping his wand from his sleeve, and where he had been sitting, the floor abruptly parted, its mouth opening to accommodate a vast, wind-filled chamber that swallowed the now-vacant chair whole.
"Luckily," the voice chuckled, "I knew you wouldn't take my advice. Authority problems, Warlock? Ironic."
"Everyone stay calm," Minister Shacklebolt's voice boomed, magically enhanced to carry over the sounds of breathless panic. "Everyone remain still, we are handl-"
"Yes, yes, I told you," the voice cut in, brusquely dismantling the Minister's voice charm. "I told you that already, didn't I? To stay calm. Everything is fine. You're all in my hands now - and yes, that includes you, Minister."
The magical spotlight swiveled to fall on Kingsley. His chair had transformed into an oversized wrist that rose up from the floor, with the Minister himself seated cupped within the hand's robotic-looking palm.
At this, the sign of their own leader in distress, even Head Auror Potter looked wan and nervous.
"What do you want?" Warlock Hawkworth shouted, giving into the room's tense curiosity, and the voice chuckled again.
"Nothing," it said. "I simply want your attention. This is the problem with exclusivity, isn't it? Some clubs are harder to break into than others. Not the Ministry, of course." Another laugh. "No, this is rather too easy. Already infested, isn't it? The Ministry, I mean, though not just that. The world, even. Eternality, immortality. I'm just a bit louder about it," the voice added, meaningfully filling the space with sound, "but I'm not the only one who's already gotten in."
Antioch Peverell looked up from where he stood in the shadows, feeling a crease in his brow that he hadn't felt in quite some time; not since his brother Cadmus had been killed, in fact, which felt like an eerie coincidence.
"Come find me," the voice invited flatly, and then was gone.
Then, as the lights flickered back into being, all hell broke loose.
Three Days Earlier
Old Black Residence
Palace Gardens Terrace
October 13, 2003
5:42 p.m.
"Hortense," Hermione exclaimed, blinking. "You're - "
"Here," Draco grumbled unpleasantly. "Uninvited."
"Nonsense, Draco, I was most certainly invited," Hortense replied, stepping out of the now-operational Floo and gesturing behind her for Thibaut to follow. "Don't you remember?"
"I remember saying Wednesday," Draco informed her stiffly. "I also remember being informed this morning by Gr- by Hermione's militant watch that today is not, in fact, Wednesday, nor is it even the day immediately preceding Wednesday, and therefore -"
"What do you have to drink?" Thibaut interrupted, walking through the Floo and hefting a large covered rectangle under his arm. "I'll give you a hint: don't say anything that isn't Bordeaux."
"Well, could I say claret?" Hermione asked, and then frowned, eyeing the item he'd brought with him. "And what's that?"
"I think you mean 'who' is that, little girl," Thibaut corrected. "And more importantly, don't say 'claret' unless you'd like to be equally as severed from your toes as you are from any respectable sensibilities - "
"Oh, for the ever-living sake of fuck," Draco growled, cutting Hermione off as she opened her mouth to attempt a baffled response. "Thibaut, don't tell me you brought - "
"IT IS VERY DARK," pronounced the still-covered portrait of Armand Malfoy. "YOU TOLD ME THE KING WOULD BE WAITING."
"Yes, Uncle Armand," Hortense sniffed, "we did indeed say that - "
"HE USUALLY HAS THE CANDLES LIT," bemoaned Armand. "HE IS A VERY SENSUOUS LOVER, A TRULY ROMANTIC SOUL - "
"No," Draco interrupted. "No. No. No - "
"No to what?" Thibaut asked, briefly fanning himself. "Is it hot in here?" he asked Hermione, looking immensely perturbed. "It feels hot. What's the humidity in this room?"
"Fourteen percent," Hermione replied, in what Draco had to assume was a lie.
"Impossible," Thibaut returned. "Sixteen, at least - "
"Hermione, chérie, this house is not remotely ready for a party," Hortense interrupted, turning to her and giving the half-covered sofa a look of disdain. "Unless there's some sort of theme, I suppose, and that theme is - oh, I don't know, 'slumming it in the mausoleum' - "
"Yes, actually," Hermione replied, unfazed. "That's the theme."
Hortense blinked.
"My goodness, how sublime!" she crowed in approval, bending forward to kiss Hermione on either cheek. "Genius. What a brilliant subversion. Are you quite sure you're British?"
"Didn't you hear 'claret'?" Thibaut demanded. "She's so British I'm surprised she's not trying to colonize us as we speak."
"Who says I'm not?" Hermione prompted without hesitation, a response which Draco was furious to discover drove him to unreasonable pride.
"Touché," Thibaut returned, pulling a slender bunch of grapes from his pocket and levitating them towards his mouth.
"Hold on," Draco grumbled, hastily backing away before Hortense could manage to approach him. "I thought you two had some sort of funeral-party to attend before you came here. My father specifically said - "
"Who, Lucius?" Thibaut interrupted. "That old bore. He said something about wanting to lie down or something - and then, I don't know, something-something 'hurl myself through a window directly into the Seine,' or - "
"No, that was you, Thibaut," Hortense corrected. "Don't you remember? The toast was dry, and then you said - "
"That's impossible," Thibaut returned stiffly. "You know I would have specifically used the word 'defenestration,' Hortense. There's only so many times to use it - "
"Siblings," Draco muttered to Hermione. "Impossible."
She nudged him away to address Hortense. "Listen," Hermione began firmly, "you are here a bit early, so why don't Draco and I just take you to a hotel, and - "
"Hotel?" Hortense scoffed. "What, share towels with the other guests? Submit myself to arbitrary search and seizure? Chance strangulation by my bedding? No, thank you, certainly a tempting offer but that's a firm no - "
"I - what?" Draco asked, blinking. "That's not even remotely how hotels work - "
"TELL THE KING MY SHIP IS READY," Armand bellowed. "I'VE PREPARED THE FLEET FOR LAUNCH, AND ALSO, MY PENIS IS UNLEASHED - "
"Wait a minute, what are you saying?" Hermione pressed frantically, launching after Hortense as she meandered towards the stairwell. "If not a hotel, then - "
"No," Draco said again, choking on the bitter taste of his fervent opposition as he arrived late to the same conclusion. "No, Hortense, Thibaut, listen, we don't - the house isn't ready, there aren't enough rooms - "
"Have you put any thought into the arrangement?" Hortense asked, peering around the room. "Of the furniture, I mean. You don't seem to have determined anything about the entertainment space," she continued, sauntering through the corridor as Hermione chased after her, "and what's in here? Why's this room locked- "
"NOT THERE," Draco barked, lunging forward and startling Hermione as he barricaded the door to his study. "I mean, it's a mess, of course," he offered hastily, pointedly avoiding Hermione's look of confusion. "Nothing interesting, either, just my collection of, um - " he cleared his throat. "You know, rare books, plus piles of soiled dish towels - "
"Gross," muttered Thibaut.
"We definitely wash our dish towels," Hermione assured him, flashing Draco another glance of horrified bemusement, and Thibaut shrugged.
"I meant the books," he sniffed, "but that's beside the point. You realize if you have people coming in through the Floo you're going to have everyone backed into one space, effectively destroying any reasonable manner of queuing - "
" - not to mention," Hortense continued, now appearing to measure the kitchen with a ruler she had produced from nowhere, "that if you only have one room for entertainment, you're going to have people running into each other at every possible opportunity - "
"Well, we also have the foyer," Hermione began uncertainly, and Hortense cut her off with a scoff.
"It's pronounced foyer," she corrected.
"Foyer?" Hermione echoed.
"Foyer," Hortense repeated emphatically.
"IS THE KING READY FOR ME?" asked Armand, and Thibaut sighed.
"Do you have somewhere I can put Uncle Armand?" he asked impatiently. "He is prone to imbalanced humors after travel."
"You do know he's dead, right?" Draco prompted, only to be brushed aside by Hortense.
"If I were you, Hermione," Hortense continued, as Thibaut conjured a hammer and began eyeing the walls, "I'd set the elves up in here - "
"Elves?" Hermione asked uncertainly. "But I wasn't - I thought we could just - "
"NO," Draco said, hurriedly running after Thibaut. "NO, DON'T DO IT - "
"Do what?" Thibaut asked innocently, flicking his wand to place a nail squarely in the center of the living room wall.
" - well, if you must," Hortense continued, "you can pay them - totally charming, honestly, what a concept - but still, you're going to need someone to serve the beverages. You cannot simply let the drinks sit out unattended, chérie, they're not children - "
"That's," Hermione said, and blinked. "Well, putting that aside, I don't know how you expect me to find some sort of horde of servants in the next, I don't know, three days - "
"Well, you could charm the trays," Hortense said disapprovingly. "It's not ideal, but I suppose I can make do. Show me your silver and we'll see how pliable the metal is - "
"Silver?" Hermione asked meekly, and Hortense drew back in dismay.
"Are you telling me you don't have - "
"STOP THIS," Draco shouted, lunging for his cousin as Thibaut leapt deftly away, humming loudly and flicking his wand to levitate Armand's portrait onto the nail. "YOU - CAN'T - BE - SERIOUS - "
"THESE ARE NOT THE KING'S CHAMBERS," Armand wailed. "THIS IS CLEARLY A HAUNTED ORPHANAGE - "
" - HOW A PERSON CAN SIMPLY WANDER AROUND NOT POSSESSING SILVER AND THINK THEMSELVES IN THE CORRECT STATE OF BEING FOR SOMETHING AS GRAVELY SIGNIFICANT AS A WHIMSICAL MAUSOLEUM PARTY - "
" - I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, THIBAUT, I'M GOING TO KILL YOU WITH MY HANDS AND I'M NOT EVEN GOING TO THROW YOU A FUNERAL, I'M JUST GOING TO TOSS YOU OUT THE WINDOW AND INTO THE BINS OUTSIDE - "
"THE WORD YOU'RE LOOKING FOR, YOU SHOUTY TYRANT, IS 'DEFENESTRATE' - "
" - I'M GOING TO DEFENESTRATE YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL, THIBAUT - "
"Malfoy," Hermione whispered urgently, grabbing his arm and yanking him violently around to face her. "Malfoy, she's already putting her things in the spare bedroom, I don't - what do we do?" she demanded, her eyes wide with panic. "What do I - how do we - "
She was very upset, Draco noticed, tearing his attention from his uncle's portrait on the wall (and his cousin's gleeful, sing-song denial that such a thing was even happening) to stare at her, unwillingly driven to sorting out the obvious.
She was very upset, he reminded himself, ignoring the fact that Hortense had already taken the opportunity to levitate herself grandly up the stairs.
She was very upset, Draco determined again, conclusively this time, taking in the look on Hermione's face and the degree of wildness to her unruly hair and calculating, gradually, that in the equation that was Hermione Granger's discomfort plus his own presence in the room, the only plausible outcome was that it was now his job to calm her.
It occurred to Draco Malfoy, in a brutal strike of terror, that it had somehow become his job to take care of Hermione Granger, and in a subsequent moment of utterly dismal failure, he realized he hadn't the faintest idea how to do it.
"Study," he said hoarsely, having already surrendered his voice to helpless fury. "Now."
Hermione nodded.
"Okay," she whispered, taking his hand and sprinting down the corridor with him.
Nott Manor
Theo Nott's bedroom
10:42 p.m.
"THEODORE," Draco roared, bursting into the room with a lordly expression of mania. "I have a problem."
"By all means," Theo said lazily, waving a hand. "Interrupt me. I have no life outside of your qualms. In fact, I actually stop breathing when you're not here, Malfoy. My life positively collapses when you leave. Actually, I'm a figment of your imagination. I physically cannot exist without you -"
"My cousins," Draco snapped, pacing the floor as if Theo hadn't spoken at all. "They're terrible. They've moved in. My portrait-uncle, or - I don't know, uncle-portrait - won't stop shouting about blow jobs, Hortense is filling our kitchen with back-talking flatware, Thibaut is - he eats too many grapes, who can eat that many grapes? And Granger, don't get me started on Granger - "
"I wouldn't," Theo said, eyeing his fingernails.
" - and I don't know what to do!" Draco shouted, thrusting his notably empty hands directly in front of Theo's face. "She's obviously stressed, I'm stressed, and my only solution was to lock us in with my potions but she's - you know, she's not like me, she's not going to want to - to hide," he stammered. "She's going to want to, I don't know - deal with it, or want me to deal with it, and I don't - WHO DOES THIS?" he demanded, staring expectantly at Theo.
"Oh, sorry," Theo drawled. "Did you want an answer?"
"AND," Draco announced, abruptly returning to his rant-pacing, "I can tell she's still upset that I told her we aren't relationship people. But of course we aren't relationship people - LOOK AT US!" he shouted, rounding again on Theo and gesturing helplessly to himself. "Obviously I can't be what she wants me to be! I can't help her with Potter, I can't help her with this, and I just - "
"What do you mean help her with Potter?" Theo asked, frowning. "What's wrong with him? Aside from the obvious," he conceded, carefully returning his attention to the book in his lap.
"Specifically, she's worried about Ignotus Peverell," Draco muttered, scrubbing brutishly at the furrow in his brow. "She doesn't know what he wants with Potter, and seeing as he already tried to kill us - "
"Seems a silly thing to worry about," Theo remarked. "If Ignotus wanted to kill Potter, he would, wouldn't he? I can't imagine that's his actual goal."
"Well, whatever it is, I hardly like it much either," Draco retorted, bristling. "I don't like that Ignotus Peverell is dating - or that he's - whatever he's doing," he exhaled grumpily, "with Katie, who doesn't know who he is, unless Potter's told her." He paused. "Has he?"
"Why would I know?" Theo prompted. "None of this has anything to do with me, Draco. As I told you, I don't even exist when you're not here."
"Oh, shut up," Draco muttered, collapsing backwards on the bed. "I'm in distress."
"I see that," Theo informed him, reaching over to pat his forehead. "There, there."
Draco sighed.
"What do I do?" he mumbled crossly.
"About Granger?" Theo asked.
Draco gave a sullen nod.
"Be nice to her," Theo advised. "She doesn't need you to fix it, Draco. She just doesn't want to do the shitty stuff alone."
"What about the rest of it?" Draco demanded. "My cousins. Potter." He shut his eyes. "Katie."
"Not my problem, not my problem, and not your problem," Theo replied easily, ticking them off on his fingers. "Have Granger help you with that stuff."
"Seems needlessly circular," Draco commented skeptically. "Help her, and then make her help me?"
"No. Help her," Theo corrected, "and she'll want to help you."
"Ugh," Draco scoffed incoherently. "None of that sounds right." He paused. "Also, I hate you."
"I know," Theo replied, giving his best friend's forehead another brisk pat. "Are you finished?"
"No," Draco said.
Theo waited.
"Fuck," Draco groaned, dragging himself to his feet. "Thanks."
"Come back soon," Theo replied airily, waving a hand. "I'll just be here, frozen in your absence."
"Shut up," Draco called over his shoulder, pulling the door open and striding through it.
Beside the bed, Harry let out a breath, dispelling his disillusionment charm.
"That," he announced, "was - "
"Wait," Theo told him, holding up a hand just as Draco came barging back into the room.
"Potions," Draco barked, and though it had not been phrased as a question, it clearly was.
"Try not to," Theo replied.
"But," Draco protested, exhaling.
Theo shrugged. "If you must."
"But if she - "
"Then don't."
"But if I can't - "
"Then do."
"But she's - "
"Maybe you don't give her enough credit," Theo suggested, finally setting aside the book he'd long been pretending to read. "She's marrying you, isn't she? You might be able to hide some of your dark stuff, but you definitely haven't hidden it all. She's almost certainly under no false pretenses about you being a functioning human."
"Yeah," Draco conceded uneasily, "but - "
"You're not shitty," Theo told him. "You've just got some unresolved shit."
Draco blinked.
Opened his mouth.
Groaned.
"You know I don't hate you, right?" Draco pronounced forcefully.
"Yeah, I fucking know that," Theo replied. "Go home, Malfoy."
Draco flipped him off with his usual digital fluency, heading through the door frame again.
"Okay," Theo said to Harry's wavering vacancy on the floor. "You're good now. Things got emotional, so he's definitely not going to be able to talk to me for at least forty-eight hours. Purely from centuries of carefully-bred shame."
"You're calling that 'emotional'?" Harry echoed, re-materializing and sitting up from the floor. "Jesus, you guys are really fucked up."
"Amazing, isn't it?" Theo agreed, reaching down and hauling Harry up to the bed to resume their previous activities. "Anyway," he mused, sliding his hand down Harry's trousers. "Where were we?"
"Actually, we were talking," Harry reminded him, closing his finger's around Theo's wrist and giving him a stern look of admonishment. "About where you've been. Who you've been with. What you've been doing. You know, the general Nott-ness of being -"
"You heard me," Theo said. "When Draco's not around, I just fold myself into a little square and tuck myself into a drawer."
"Nott," Harry sighed, and Theo rolled his eyes.
"Listen, if we're going to talk," Theo suggested mockingly, "then maybe we should talk about Ignotus Peverell. Why aren't you freaking out?" he pressed. "You heard Malfoy. Granger's worried about you doing something stupid, and history has proven she's not exactly wrong."
"I'm not going to jump to conclusions," Harry countered stubbornly, nudging his glasses up on his nose with a gloriously childish look of opposition. "I don't know what he wants with me, Nott, but I'm pretty sure it isn't to hurt me or anything. And even if that is what he wants," Harry added, now employing a razor-sharp smile, "I'm not eleven anymore, or even seventeen. I know what to do with people who are trying to hurt me now."
Theo shuddered against his will, blinking away the countless chilling nightmares he'd had over the last year of Harry broken, bleeding, gone.
Theo Nott had so few weaknesses in the age before Harry Potter.
Now he only had the one, but it was a terrible one.
"It's not just Draco or Granger, you know. I don't like it either," Theo pointed out. "Ignotus. Whatever he wants with you, I don't like it. I'm just not making a scene about it, unlike some people."
"Nott - "
"You should be more careful," Theo said gruffly. "Don't meet him alone. Don't meet him at all, in fact. He killed his own brother, Potter, and he tried to kill Draco and Granger, so I hardly think - I don't - "
"Theo," Harry rumbled quietly, shaking his head. "Relax. I'm fine."
Theo swallowed.
"I know you're fine," he replied stiffly, "but still, I don't understand it. I don't understand why you have any curiosity at all."
Harry sighed, rolling onto his back.
"I never had a family," he admitted after a moment's pause. "And that's sort of what Ignotus is, right? I mean, I'm his descendant. There's - it's just - I don't know." He turned his head. "I know it's stupid."
"It's bloody idiotic," Theo agreed.
Harry chuckled. "Lucky you're always so sympathetic."
Theo shut his eyes, suddenly tingling with unknown frustration.
"What do you need a family for, Potter?" he demanded brusquely. "You have me."
He heard the catch in Harry's breath.
"And other people, I assume," Theo added gruffly, suddenly grateful that he wasn't being touched.
After all, Draco wasn't the only one who disliked unnecessary displays of emotion.
Or honesty.
(And this, regrettably, had been both.)
Harry toyed with the silence for a moment.
"I agreed to see him Thursday afternoon," Harry said eventually. "Ignotus - or, well, Montague, since I didn't admit I already knew who he was. After lunch during the conference. It'll be in my office," he added, "where there are surveillance spells and Aurors I trained myself and a very low likelihood of me getting trapped or harmed or murd-"
"Stop," Theo said forcefully, and Harry stopped.
Another few seconds ticked by.
Harry opened his mouth. Theo braced for a lecture.
That wasn't what happened.
"I want to tell people about us," Harry said.
Theo fought the immediate urge to vomit, or something.
Something - somewhere - threatened to burst, and whatever it was, he swallowed it down.
"Someday," Harry clarified hastily. "I just - someday. You know," he added. "When you're not keeping secrets and I'm not - I don't know." He cleared his throat. "Someday," he attempted again, "I want people to know you're my family."
Too much.
Much too much.
"Fuck," Theo exhaled sharply, scrubbing at his eyes and meeting Harry's green ones. "Fuck you, Harry Potter. Fuck you, fuck your immortal lineage, fuck all of it entirely."
Harry blinked. "Well," he said. "That's - "
"Fuck," Theo said shakily, cradling his own head in his hands and imploring himself not to do something stupid, like cry.
He felt a steady grip on his wrist.
Then a brush of Harry's stubble against his cheek.
Then Harry's lips against his.
"I love you too," Harry said.
Theo kissed him, furious.
And then again, softer, because he wasn't actually angry.
He was something else entirely.
"Someday," Harry suggested again, and Theo breathed it in; let it out.
"Someday," Theo agreed, licking the taste of it from his lips.
Nott Manor
Upstairs Library
October 14, 2003
5:42 a.m.
"So," Daphne said, insufficiently battling a yawn as she levitated her yoga mat in behind her. "Is there a reason we're doing this so early?"
"Yes," Pansy said curtly. "It's because I'm in desperate need of motion, and there's no way I'm going to have time tonight. This Ministry conference is terrible," she added, half-muttering under her breath. "I thought my job would be over once it started, but apparently 'crisis management' is still a thing Weasley's insisting from me, so - "
"Oh," Daphne said with a laugh. "So you're sticking around for him, then? Interesting."
"He's - " Pansy hesitated. "It's not like that. It's not for him, it's just my job - "
"Sure it is," Daphne said, stifling another yawn. "Don't forget, Pans, I saw you with him yesterday when I came to help with the centerpieces. You looked like you wanted to strap him to the table and swallow him whole. In a sexy way, obviously," she amended.
"Murder him, more like," Pansy countered, and Daphne shrugged.
"Potato, potato," she replied. "They're similar impulses."
"Oh, and you would know?" Pansy asked skeptically, arching a brow.
"Well, I'm blessed with a vivid imagination and legs that won't quit," Daphne assured her. "This, though," she sighed, turning around to gesture to her enviable derrière. "This is precisely why I'm up early to work out with you, despite the fact that being up at this hour is firmly against all my principles. I'm pretty sure Cad thinks all of this" - here she gestured vaguely to her body - "happens by accident."
"Men are so stupid," Pansy muttered, letting her mat fall beside Daphne's. "They deserve to get trapped by our artfully cultivated wiles."
"So true," Daphne yawned out again, settling herself on her mat. "Child's pose?"
"Five breaths," Pansy confirmed, and Daphne nodded.
They both knelt on their mats, bending over and then proceeding to take the prescribed five breaths to levitate themselves into the air, releasing their inevitable toxins.
"Downward dog," Pansy instructed, pressing back to lift her hips as Daphne followed her motion, stretching out their hamstrings. "How is Cad, by the way?"
"Up to something," Daphne exhaled between carefully calculated breaths. "He isn't telling me what, but I'm not totally sure I should ask."
"Why shouldn't you?" Pansy prompted. "Rag doll out," she added, and Daphne nodded.
"Well, partly because I don't really want him to ask me about Marcus. And I don't know, also because - " she trailed off uncertainly. "Well," she attempted again, "you know how sometimes it's hot when someone says they're fully devoted to vengeance, and other times, you're like -" She paused. "This can't possibly be a sustainable way to live your life?"
Pansy glanced over dubiously. "Yes," she said drily. "Such a common problem."
"I just don't know if I want to know, that's all," Daphne clarified. "I mean - the sex is great, he's great - well, and terrible. And, you know, I'm engaged. To Marcus Flint. So yeah, I kind of - " she hesitated. "It's just - " Another halt. "Sun salutation?" she asked hopefully, and Pansy glared at her.
"Your aura's a mess and you're completely lying," Pansy said. "But yeah, fine."
"Of course I'm lying," Daphne retorted in mountain pose. "But you're lying too, aren't you?"
Fair, Pansy thought, lifting her chest.
"Fine," she said gruffly. "Want the truth? I want to fuck Percy Weasley."
"I'm in love with Cad," replied Daphne.
"Shit," they both exhaled.
"Is it just sex?" Daphne asked after another breath, and Pansy grimaced.
"Don't know. Maybe," she said. "Maybe not. Maybe I just - I don't know. I'm hoping it's just sex," she clarified, "but he's - I don't know. He's something. He's something different, something fucking - rare, I guess. Ugh." She groaned, shaking Percy Weasley from her system. "Plank."
"Fine," Daphne said, shifting. "Is it so bad if you like him, though? He's kind of, you know. Important. Tactically, it's not a bad match."
"It's Percy goddamn Weasley," Pansy shot back. "How can that be anything but a bad match?"
"It could be a twelfth-century murderer you met while he was robbing the Ministry," Daphne said, and though Pansy could tell she was aiming for some sort of airy lightness, there was something utterly perturbed in her best friend's voice.
"You love him," Pansy repeated, frowning. "You're sure?"
"It's not really something I can be sure about," Daphne replied, and paused. "But yeah, I'm sure."
"Yikes," Pansy said, and Daphne sighed.
"I know. Chaturanga?"
"Yes. Elbows in further," Pansy advised, and Daphne grimaced, following her lead. "So what are you going to do?"
"What, about being in love with him? I don't know. It's not like I can do anything about it, seeing as - oh yeah, I'm engaged," Daphne repeated, with a darkened laugh. "I mean, I'm going to marry someone else eventually - so it can't really ever be normal, can it?"
"Maybe it can be something else," Pansy said, trying to shrug as decently as she could while holding her shoulders still. "I mean, what's normal? I want to fuck a Weasley, Daph, and Draco's marrying Granger. Pretty sure normal's not in the cards anymore."
"Ugh," Daphne said, bending over to wrap her arms pitifully around her knees. "This is - this is all terrible. Can I just, like - suspend, for a minute?"
"Yeah," Pansy said, rolling her neck out. "Sure. Take a minute, and I'll just - "
She stopped, something catching her eye outside one of the top windows of the Nott Manor library. She and Daphne regularly used the room (not to Theo's knowledge, obviously, not that he would care) because of the high ceilings, which meant that they were able to levitate with plenty of space. It also meant an unobstructed view of the courtyard, where Pansy could see two dark heads bent over something that had become much too familiar over the last few weeks.
"What is it?" Daphne asked, her voice muffled with her chest pressed to her thighs, and Pansy considered it for a second.
"I don't know," she said, because Pansy didn't, in fact, have any idea why Theo Nott and Cadmus Peverell would need a detailed map of the Ministry's main banquet hall, nor why they would be looking over it so intently. "You said you think Cad's up to something?"
"He's sort of secretive," Daphne confirmed. "Also, I inherently don't trust anyone who's that good at fighting. Always a problematic sign if he's had a reason to be so talented at trying not to die, don't you think?"
"Mm." Pansy tilted her head, watching Theo point to something she realized was precisely where she'd placed the Warlock table. "Daph," she determined suddenly. "Come with me for the rest of the conference, would you? In case I need backup."
"Why?" Daphne asked, following Pansy's lead as she clambered into upward-facing dog. "Need a barrier so you don't fuck Percy Weasley by accident?"
"By accident?" Pansy echoed dubiously, glancing over at her, and Daphne giggled.
"Yeah, you know, like - oops," she mimicked coquettishly, "I was just standing here, innocently doing absolutely nothing, and accidentally his penis SLIPPED and FELL into my vagina - "
"God," Pansy cut in, groaning. "Yes, Daph. That's exactly what I'm worried about. You nailed it."
"Good," Daphne said, passing her a sly sidelong grin. "I'm just glad you're finally telling the truth, Pansykins."
Old Black Residence
Palace Gardens Terrace
October 15, 2003
8:13 p.m.
"Oh my god," Hermione said, falling onto the stiff Victorian sofa in Draco's study as he hastily shut the door behind them. "I never realized anyone on earth could be so exhausting-"
"Which one do you mean?" Draco asked drily. "The woman who's charmed all our silverware to life, the man who's turned our living room into some sort of Roman bathhouse, or the dead portrait who refuses to desist in his fondness for fellatio?"
"All of them," Hermione said. "All of it. Also, I thought musical kitchen implements would be charming, like in Beauty and the Beast," she added, "but they're truly awful singers. They're genuinely worse at singing than I am at knitting, and that's all I'm going to say about it."
"I don't know what beauty has to do with it, but are you the beast in this scenario?" Draco asked. "I mean, given the options, I have to assume you are, so - "
"Ha-ha," Hermione said, rolling her eyes as he flashed her his usual smirk, falling down beside her. "We can't keep escaping here, you know. Much as I wish we could."
"Sure we can," Draco countered, waving a hand. "Look, there's all these fun potions we can take to get us through the next two days or so. Or not get through them," he suggested wryly, "if you, like me, would prefer the welcoming arms of death to any more of Uncle Armand's distressingly erotic poetry -"
"You haven't taken any," Hermione noted, glancing at the vials that hadn't been touched. "I have to say, I'm surprised. And impressed, I suppose."
"Well, I assumed you wouldn't approve," Draco grumbled, looking away. "And it doesn't seem fair for me to do it and leave you to deal with their nonsense alone - "
"Well, what if I want some?" Hermione prompted boldly, and Draco blinked. "I mean, I'd at least like to be offered. You don't have to treat me like I'm some kind of - " she broke off, unsure what word she wanted to use. "I mean, I've broken rules too, you know," she said firmly. "I - I broke into Gringotts!" she declared. "I cursed Marietta Edgecombe's face. I lit a teacher on fire." She broke off, half-smiling. "I beat the shit out of Millicent Bulstrode - "
"Okay, my apologies, you're a nightmare and I irresponsibly overlooked it," Draco conceded with a hint of approval, before glancing anxiously at his workspace. "Does this mean you want a vial?"
Hermione paused, grimacing. "Er, well - I - "
"You deplorable hussy," Draco said proudly.
"HERMIONE," they heard from outside the door, both of them instantly tensing at the sound of Hortense's voice. "ARE YOU AWARE THAT NONE OF YOUR NAPKINS ARE MONOGRAMMED?"
"In fairness to Hortense, my mother always did love a monogram," Draco remarked, and Hermione watched his expression stiffen slightly, the humor abruptly gone from it. "But anyway, back to the potions - if you don't want to - "
"Let's do it," Hermione said quickly. "Just - just one vial. Something to take the edge off," she warned, "but nothing near as strong as last time."
"I - yeah, of course," Draco said, blinking, and rose to his feet, looking unexpectedly relieved. "Sure, just - just a little something for anxiety and, um, maybe a little bit of euphoria - "
"Not too much," Hermione warned. "Or none, possibly."
He waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah, sure - "
"WHERE IS THE SMALL ONE?" Armand demanded. "HAS THE LITTLE ONE SEEN THE KING?"
"YOU'D BETTER BE DOING SOMETHING INTERESTING, DRACO," Thibaut added, "OR I'LL DISINHERIT YOU - "
"YOU MEAN DISEMBOWEL," Armand corrected.
"POTATO, POTATO," replied Thibaut.
"Okay, fine," Hermione conceded, withering slightly. "Slightly more than a little euphoria, maybe."
"Not to worry," Draco assured her, smugly turning to hand her a vial. "I was going to lie to you anyway."
She waited until he had sat down beside her before carefully waving the vial under her nose, getting a whiff of something like plums and honey before quickly leaning away, erupting in a series of loud, obtrusive coughs.
"What?" she sputtered, catching Draco's look of amusement.
"You have to drink this one," he said, clearly fighting a laugh. "It's not an inhalant."
She glared at him. He shrugged, raising the vial to his lips, and drained it in one swallow.
"Oof," he announced with approval, eyeing the vial. "Not bad."
She took a sip, testing it, and then proceeded to tip her head all the way back. It had a slightly tart, vaguely earthy hint that struck her as not precisely a flavor, but a color; the vial tasted golden, she decided, letting it slip coolly down her throat.
"Hey," she said, blinking as she set the vial down on the table beside the sofa. "Why didn't you move out of Malfoy Manor before this?"
"Christ," Draco said, shaking his head. "Couldn't wait for the potion to kick in before you got wildly personal, could you, Granger?"
"It's not wildly personal," she countered. "It's a simple question, isn't it? Why didn't you leave?" she pressed, turning to face him. "Katie seemed surprised," she added, unable to prevent bringing it up, and Draco's mouth tightened.
"I lied to her," he said. "She wanted me to move in with her, but I -" he cleared his throat. "You saw what happened to me in Diagon," he reminded her brusquely. "That's how it is everywhere. It's like that," he exhaled, "everywhere, and I didn't want her to see me like that."
"Like what?" Hermione asked tentatively.
"Like how the rest of the world sees me," Draco said miserably, eyeing his empty vial. "Plus my father had already left," he added, shaking himself of whatever he'd been reliving. "And I don't know, it was hard to leave it. My mother," he said, letting the reference to her hang alone in the air between them. "Which I'm sure you're tired of hearing about."
"You know, you've never actually said anything about her," Hermione reminded him. "I can see the trauma," she added, "but you don't actually, you know. Use words."
"Don't call it trauma," Draco protested briskly. "That's ridiculous. I'm not traumatized, it's not some sort of pedestrian head injury - "
"Really?" Hermione interrupted. "You really want to argue over semantics?"
"If you don't know that the answer to that question is always yes," Draco informed her, "then I don't know how to help you."
"Malfoy, honestly, I'm just trying to have a convers-"
"I'm not like you," he cut in flatly, glaring at her, and she wasn't sure what she'd done, but she was solidly convinced he was about to inform her. "I don't hit my problems, okay? I don't even face them. I run from them, or avoid them. With this," he clarified roughly, dangling the vial in the air between them before letting his hand fall. "With - I don't know. Persistent evasion. I couldn't face my trial, and I couldn't face my mother dying - actually," he said with a mocking scoff, "I was barely conscious when it happened. I'd taken so many vials I barely knew where I was. My father was holding me upright so she'd think I was actually there when she died, but I wasn't there. Not really. And do I regret it?" he demanded, launching to his feet and turning to stare down at her.
"Um," she said unhelpfully.
"I don't know. I don't know." He paced the floor. "Who would it have helped, Granger? If I'd been - I don't know. Aware. Who would it have helped?"
"I," Hermione began, only to be cut off.
"I'm not like you," Draco said again, angrily. "You can look directly into the face of your problems" - here he jabbed his fingers out, demonstrating this - "and fight back. You can fight, but I'm not like you," he repeated, and Hermione felt it was imploring this time. "I'm not like you, and I can't - and all of this is just - and I never left my house because I - because I can't - "
She watched him falter helplessly and blinked, feeling a slightly woozy sensation in her head from the motion of him pacing.
"Put your hands up," she said, rising to her feet, and he stared at her, his grey eyes narrowing slightly.
"What?"
"Like - like this," she said, taking his wrists and curling his fingers into fists. "Don't tuck your thumbs in," she added, "or they'll break. Trust me, I did that a few times. Do you have a knife in here?" she asked, glancing around his study, and Draco gaped soundlessly at her. "Fine, fine, no knives, then. That's advanced stuff anyway. Just, um - "
She looked down, eyeing his feet.
"Here," she said, kicking his feet apart and then taking hold of his hips, squaring them. "Yeah, there. And, um - " She straightened, pressing down on his shoulders and smacking the bottoms of his elbows until they were at the appropriate height. "Yes. Good."
She watched him swallow.
"What are we doing?" he asked hoarsely, and she shrugged.
"We're fighting," she informed him. "It's not that hard to face your problems if you can just punch them in the face."
"Granger," he growled irritably, "that was a metaphor - "
"I know what the fuck it was," she retorted, vaguely determining that the words leaving her mouth were doing so without her permission, "but I don't know how to fix it for you, so instead we're going to do this. Okay?" she demanded.
He blinked.
"Okay," he said, and she nodded.
"Okay," she said. "Hit me."
"What?" he squawked, withdrawing. "No. That's - no."
"Malfoy, you fucker," she informed him. "I'm not going to let myself get hit. You absolute fucker."
"You're swearing a lot," he said defensively. "You're scary."
"I'm on drugs," she reminded him. "It's fine."
"Okay," he said, and frowned. "But I don't want to hit you."
"Don't hit me," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Hit everything. Hit everything. Take everything you've bottled up and every horrible thing you've ever seen or felt or witnessed and hold it in your hand; sharpen it and aim it, so that when you take all that force inside you and all the terrible, terrible things from your life and you expel it from you like a fucking curse, it shatters something." She looked up, meeting his grey eyes. "Aim true," she told him, "so that maybe something other than you might break."
A pause.
"Granger," Draco attempted, and she shook her head.
"We're fighting," she reminded him, putting her fists up. "Hit me."
He sighed, throwing a fairly weak punch at what appeared to be her shoulder.
"Don't be a pussy, Malfoy."
"Jesus, don't be a cunt, Granger."
"Hit me again. Hit harder. Aim for something."
"But I - "
"Punch me in the face," Hermione beckoned conclusively. "I won't let you hurt me, I promise."
"Granger, this is insane."
"Come on, Malfoy."
"Hermione - "
"Draco - "
He went with a right uppercut, aiming straight for her jaw.
"Fuck," she determined with surprise, blocking his fist. "You've done this before."
"What, punch someone?" he asked gruffly. "I'm Theo's best friend, Granger. Ever heard him speak? It's not like I've never been in a fight before."
"Well, hit me again, then," she said. "Not an uppercut. A -" she thought about it. "A hook. Left hook?" she suggested, curious now.
He obliged. She blocked it.
"Not bad," she said. "I mean, it's not amazing, and you'd probably still get the shit kicked out of you by Flint or Wood, or even Rhys - "
"Don't talk about Hawkworth," Draco growled, aiming a right hook at her cheek. This one she sidestepped with a bit more motion, nearly missing it.
"Well, that's a start," she said, and punched him hard in the stomach.
"Fuck," Draco spat out, doubling over. "I wasn't ready!"
"Better not stay down," Hermione said, aiming a blow at the back of his neck until he shot upright, knocking the wind out of her with his elbow. "Ouch - "
She aimed a fist at his sternum, shoving him backwards in the same motion and dizzily straightening to catch her breath as he stumbled, staring at her.
"What the fuck are we doing?" he demanded.
Rather than answer, she ducked her shoulders and crashed into him, promptly knocking him to the floor.
"Shit," he coughed up, scrambling out from underneath to roll on top of her, catching her wrists. She wriggled her knee out, threatening to strike him in the groin with it, and in his moment of hesitation she forced him onto his back again, staring down at him.
She pinned his shoulders down, resting her palms flat with her knees astride his hips, and he stared up at her.
"Are we fighting?" he asked.
She swallowed. "We always fight."
"Not like this," he said. "Do you want me to fight you like this?"
Do you want me like this?
"No," she said.
Yes.
"You're lying," he said. "Don't lie."
"You always lie."
"Yeah, well, I'm a coward," he spat back.
She pressed down on his shoulders, watching him flinch. "I wouldn't want a coward."
"You don't want me," he said.
"I shouldn't," she agreed.
"That's - "
She could see his mouth was dry.
"That's not the same thing," he said, and she opened her mouth to say something - anything, or nothing, she hadn't decided - but he took advantage of her hesitation to roll her onto her back as he shifted onto his knees, looking down at her on the floor.
He didn't say anything.
"This potion," she attempted, "was supposed to make things better."
"I didn't know you were going to want to fight," he countered.
She had to fight a humorless laugh.
"I always want to fight," she said. "Don't you get that? Don't you get it?"
He clearly didn't.
She struggled to sit up, glaring at him.
"I'm not better than you, Malfoy," she said. "You were right when you told me I was fucked up, too. I just have a different code. My code says you face down your demons. My code says you fuck your demons up so they don't fuck you up."
"Language," Draco said. She ignored him.
"Your code says run," she said, as maliciously as she could manage. "Your code says hide, Malfoy, and maybe that works for you, or maybe it's a stupid code and I hate it, I hate it, I hate it," she spat furiously, "but even if it's the stupidest code on earth, you're not less than me. I'm not better than you." She swallowed hard. "Can't you accept that? I'm a genius," she added stiffly. "I'm a genius, Malfoy. Draco. Draco, I'm a goddamn genius. I know what I'm talking about. I'm right about this, and Draco - Draco, you should - "
She stopped talking when he got close.
Close to what?
Just close.
She could smell the potion on his breath; could imagine the taste of gold on his lips. She could feel the skin of his cheek brushing hers, she could hear the motion of his lungs, she could see the hesitation in his throat, the look in his eyes that was molten when it met hers.
"What was in the vial?" she asked him hazily.
She watched his tongue slip between his lips.
"Nothing," he said. "I wouldn't drug you."
Damn.
"Liar," she whispered.
"No," he said. "I told you not to lie. I'm not lying. I lied at first," he corrected himself. "But it was just - it was just flavors. I don't know. A charm to make it look pretty, to taste good. That's all." He swallowed again. "I swear. That's all."
"Then what is this?" she asked him.
This.
You, me, us.
"You tell me," he said. "And don't lie."
She wanted to lie.
She was pretty sure it would be easier.
She closed her eyes, tilting her chin up, and let her cheek brush against his. She closed her left hand loosely around his right wrist and felt the tension there; felt him stiffen at her touch, her thumb lingering penitently over the motion in his veins.
He shifted, his mouth close to her jaw now, his honeyed breath on her neck. She leaned in, tilting her chin up further, and felt his lips graze her throat. Not a kiss. Not kissing.
The thrill of him was electric.
His hand shot out for her waist, his fingers pressing firm. She leaned her chin down again, letting her lips brush across the bone of his cheek. Sharp, sleek, angled. He sucked in a breath and she touched her lips to the side of his mouth, daring him to come closer.
Not a kiss.
Not kissing.
She felt his eyelashes brush her cheeks as he dropped his chin, his lips near her ear now, floating over the dull roar of her bloodstream. Another motion and they hovered above her pulse, the feel of his shaky sigh skating over the pressure of her unsteady heart.
She raced through the facts as she knew them.
There was nothing in the potion.
He didn't want a lie, but she didn't know the truth.
If she kissed him now -
No.
No.
But on the other hand -
She ached.
She ached.
She pulled away.
"Draco - "
"It's fine," he said, his voice clipped as he tore himself away. "Don't worry. It's fine."
He stood up, facing the door for a second before reaching out for the handle.
Then he paused, shut his eyes, and doubled back.
She held her breath, waiting to see if he'd come back to her, but instead he swiped three vials from his desk, shoving them into his pockets.
"Don't worry," he said again, his mouth tightening. "I won't remember this."
Then he yanked the door open and passed through it, disappearing without a word.
Antioch Peverell nearly died the day he was born. For a brief period after he had been expelled from his mother's womb, the midwife who delivered him could not compel his eyes to open; could not convince his lungs to inflate; could not urge his heart to beat. For a time, the old woman was certain that Antioch was simply not strong enough to take a breath, or perhaps had not been fully formed in some way - so even she, a witch like his mother, had no explanation for why, after nearly ten minutes, he suddenly opened his eyes and inhaled, as if he'd merely been awaiting proper invitation.
His mother used to say he was a miracle; that God or fortune or fate had chosen that day to bless him with his handsome face, his easy humor, his effortless charm, but Antioch knew it was none of those things. It was magic, certainly; he'd had it in droves from the start, rushing through his veins, and it had kept him alive when he should have died.
But it was more than that.
He was more than that.
It was purpose as much as it was magic, and from the day of his birth, Antioch Peverell had always known he was destined for something more.
Perhaps that was what contributed to his nature. His brothers often called him arrogant, and he was. Of course, it isn't that difficult to believe you're meant for something bigger when you are quite obviously bigger than everything in your village (metaphorically speaking, of course, with regard to the realms of talent, ability, and skill) and over time, it became increasingly difficult for Antioch to imagine that he could persist within the limitations of Godric's Hollow. After all, he and his brothers were the only truly talented wizards for miles, and Antioch itched, as he always had, for something above local celebrity (or, more accurately, notoriety).
He had nearly died the day he was born, having accomplished nothing. He wouldn't die permanently that way.
It was Antioch's decision to leave, but he'd known without asking that Cadmus would be with him when he did. He'd known his brother better than anyone, and Cadmus could not resist the temptation of things he didn't know, or the impossible lure of things he couldn't have. In truth, Antioch was relieved that their youngest brother Ignotus had chosen not to accompany the two elder Peverells on their initial journey for discovery. Ignotus was always very concrete, highly definitive; he wanted answers, but in order to have an answer, there needed to be a very specific question, and Antioch didn't have a question. He simply had an arrow in his heart that pointed whichever direction the wind blew, and he was pleased that Cadmus, the second Peverell brother, lived on much the same compass. Cadmus had no need for direction; he was aimless, and happy to follow Antioch's lead. Cadmus had no need for wealth, for fame, for much of anything - but neither did he have Ignotus' conception of morality.
The darkest magic Antioch ever produced was with Cadmus steadfastly at his side.
Thus, the greatest magic he ever produced was with Cadmus steadfastly at his side.
Antioch didn't know exactly what went wrong when his relationship with Cadmus had soured. They'd begun to argue, certainly, and Cadmus wasn't particularly secretive about his feelings on Antioch's meddling with muggle politics (or anything), but Antioch could never say for sure when Cadmus' vision had diverged so dangerously from his own. Purpose and certainty had always driven Antioch, but whatever it was that drove Cadmus, it also drove the two brothers apart, ultimately leading to Cadmus' death.
It was an old story by then, and Antioch Peverell had lived a number of old stories. In general, he tried not to think about it.
"You don't need him," Herpo had said, and granted, Herpo was nearly always right. "Cadmus contributed nothing that Ignotus wouldn't otherwise bring."
Not true, Antioch hadn't wanted to say, though he'd known it even then. Ignotus was strange, always very different from either elder Peverell, and Antioch had always feared that if the more like-minded of his brothers could fail him, then it was only a matter of time before the youngest one did, too. He didn't have long to wait, either; Ignotus proved Antioch right when he put Lady Revel above their brotherhood, above their Club, above their mission.
Above their purpose.
It wasn't that Antioch was unable to grasp the concept of love. He grasped it. It wasn't particularly helpful that love came so easily to Cadmus (and apparently even to Ignotus) and was always somewhat out of reach for Antioch, but he knew what it was. He understood it, in some abstract way. He loved Herpo, certainly - he knew it like he knew his own pulse - but he could never separate the man from his abilities, and he'd never had to. It wasn't a soft love between them; it didn't feel romantic. It was a man who loved power making room in his heart for a man who loved knowledge, and for them, love was more like the tides of a restless sea than any steady current, always crashing and disappearing and resurfacing with time. It was a love that felt desperate - as though Antioch would never truly be heard or seen or understood except in Herpo's arms, and vice versa - but they parted from each other, and often.
And still, even Herpo's incurable periods of wandering were no more lonely than Cadmus' absence.
If anything, losing Cadmus had been worse.
For Antioch, who had valued loyalty above all things, the loss of his closest brother was disappointment, heartbreak and betrayal all at once. It was such a devastating blow to his view of the world that he thought it had taken nearly two centuries for him to fully recover, no matter the assurances of the man he so tenuously loved.
But now, sitting silently in the British Ministry while a formless voice terrorized the entire crowd, Antioch firmly knew that he had never truly recovered. And what's more, while Antioch was looking out at a room full of fear - full of extraordinary magic that he could already tell he wouldn't be able to trace, unless the person who cast it had wished it - he felt the strange sensation that Herpo had been wrong after all.
Antioch did need Cadmus, because Cadmus Peverell was Antioch's creativity. He was Antioch's ingenuity. Ignotus may have been Antioch's right hand, but Cadmus was Antioch's bag of tricks. He was the half of Antioch's brain that was capable of the kind of genius that nobody else saw coming, and for which the world had been lain at his feet. If Antioch was a lion, a fearsome king, then he needed his sly, clever fox by his side, and that had always been Cadmus.
But since Cadmus Peverell was dead, he desperately needed whoever had done this.
Antioch turned sharply, heading up the stairs. Clearly whoever had caused the disruption at the Ministry conference had been speaking directly to him; come find me, the voice had said, and Antioch could not resist the invitation. He wandered into the corridor, watching the fleeing, panicked crowd, and headed the opposite direction, carelessly bumping shoulders with a Ministry witch who clung, howling, to her overlarge straw hat.
Someone who had done this knew the Ministry well. Surely they weren't in it, though. The entire display had reeked of objectivity rather than contempt, and it was impossible to be a piece of a machine and not come to either love or loathe it. Which meant that if Antioch wanted to find them, he would simply have to -
He paused, feeling a hand close around his arm, and turned with surprise to find a familiar face at his elbow.
"Antioch Peverell," said Hermione Granger, using what appeared to be her unreasonably large engagement ring to locate his disillusionment spell as she spared him a grim, tightened smile. "I think it's about time you and I had a talk."
a/n: Hi guys! In my absence, I've done some things. You can now find my book, Masters of Death, on Amazon (you can find the link in my website, olivieblake dot com), and I would be incredibly honored if you would give it some consideration. If you enjoy this story, I feel fairly confident you will enjoy that as well. I have also recently completed Nobility. But I'm back now, and obviously things around here are picking up, so I shall see you all here next week!